


Be Cool, Relax, Get Hip

by amamini



Series: Fics That Got Left in the Bentley [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 50’s dance moves are hard to describe with words, 50’s music, Aziraphale wears a poodle skirt, Aziraphale’s Angelic Aura, Crowley is pure of heart and dumb of ass, Crowley rides a motorcycle, Crowley’s Demonic Aura, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feminine-presenting Aziraphale, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Pining, Podfic Welcome, Queen References, She/Her pronouns for Aziraphale, Song: Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Songfic, fic comes with a free playlist, hidden identity, if someone made a podfic of this i think i would actually sell them my soul, kind of?? read it and see, sometimes, what more can i say it’s the 50’s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-09-07 12:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20309314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amamini/pseuds/amamini
Summary: “If all is correct, this should take away any outward characteristics of your angelic nature, while still allowing you miracles and such. And it will keep you hidden from prying occult forces.”Aziraphale uncorked the vial. “Well, I wouldn’t say Heaven is occult, it’s ethereal.”Gabriel’s face fell somewhat. “I didn’t mean Heaven, Aziraphale. Demons wouldn’t be able to sense you.”Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Oh. That’s interesting.”In which Heaven can’t find out that an angel and a demon are in love, but what would they care about a demon going on dates with a(n angel disguised as a) human?





	1. i must get ‘round to it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a playlist of all the songs referenced in this fic and then some](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/02uaKqhueb3yCwLUxeCDWx?si=AN4uhOSFSVKJUwzrCUqwqQ)
> 
> "This next song is only dedicated to beautiful people here tonight. That means all of you. Thank you for coming along and making this a great occasion."  
-Freddie Mercury, before performing "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" at Live Aid, 1985

** _London, 1959_ **

“What do you  _ mean _ you’ve never had a milkshake?” Crowley cried in disbelief. “It’s one of the quintessential desserts of this decade! You of all people should know that.”

Aziraphale was pretending to dust and reorganize his books, just to keep up appearances, and turned to face Crowley, who was lounging lazily in one of the more plush armchairs near the back of the shop. “I hardly knew of their existence, dear boy. And all the restaurants I’ve grown attached to don’t serve them.” 

Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes in exasperation. He had taken to wearing very stylish cat eye glasses, black frames complete with tacky rhinestones; the rest of his ensemble consisted of a black leather jacket and jeans in typical greaser fashion, but he liked the double-takes he got on the street for the scandalous femininity of his glasses. He shook his head at Aziraphale, saying, “We’ve got to go to this diner I’ve found, it has the best milkshakes in London. I hope you don’t have plans this evening, because this is an urgent matter.”

Aziraphale was touched that this petty matter meant so much the demon, and he flashed him a cheeky smile. “I’m surprised to see you so excited about food, that’s usually my job, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah yeah, I’m a changed man.” He conjured a notepad and pen to write down the name and address of the diner, and looked at Aziraphale with mock seriousness. “Now I must warn you, this restaurant has a jukebox, so you will be subjected to… modern music. With words and everything.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage. I suppose I must start somewhere.” 

Crowley disentangled his legs from their configuration around the armchair, and stood to hand Aziraphale the paper with the address. “So I’ll see you there at seven o’clock, angel? Or do you want me to pick you up?” 

Aziraphale scoffed, “On that  _ death trap _ you’re driving around these days? No thank you, I’d rather walk.”

“Motorbikes are cool!” Crowley protested. “I’ve had the Bentley for over thirty years now, I had to switch it up at least until vintage cars are in style again.”

“I thought the car was plenty ‘cool’,” Aziraphale sighed, crossing his arms. “Not getting discorporated is very  _ cool _ . How many humans die on motorbikes every year? How are you going to explain yourself if you get discorporated in an accident?”

Crowley smirked, pinching Aziraphale’s cheek. “Aww, you do care about me.” Aziraphale swatted his hand away, looking pointedly at his shoes and trying not to blush. “Once I can get some of those new-fangled seat belts installed in the Bentley, I’ll bring it back. But for now it’s fast and reckless, so I guess I’ll meet you at the diner.” He crossed to the door, casting one final smile back at the angel before he let the door swing shut behind him.

Aziraphale shook his head and turned back to his dusting. Outside the shop, Crowley revved the engine of his bike before skidding away, making as much noise as possible. Aziraphale smiled fondly at the commotion and prepared himself for the inevitable noise complaints from the neighboring businesses. The angel didn’t see what was so bad about losing customers over a little noise. He may even have suggested to Crowley to create as much racket as he could to discourage any shoppers from turning down his street. In fact, Aziraphale decided, now was as good a time as ever to close up the shop for the day. Never mind it was only two-fifteen in the afternoon, it was  _ his _ shop and he could flip the sign to “closed” on a whim if he wanted. And he did just that. 

He put away his feather duster and sat in the armchair that the demon had occupied a minute before, closing his eyes and basking in the faint glow that Crowley left behind. He took a deep breath, and it was as if his friend was still lounging there. 

It wasn’t just that Crowley smelled good. But by all means, he did smell heavenly. Or, well, technically hellish. It was a scent, but it was also a feeling, an aura. It was like smoke, not from a cigarette, but from a campfire. Smoke that you didn’t notice as you looked up at a sky full of stars, but that stuck to your clothes for days after the fire was extinguished. Or like red wine spilled on a black tablecloth, that wasn’t so much a stain as a reminder of good times gone by, invisible but ever-present. 

Smiling to himself, Aziraphale tucked himself into the armchair, curling up and enveloping himself in the remnants of Crowley like a blanket. Was the smell of leather part of his aura too, or just a part of his jacket? And the sharp sting of iron— did he carry that with him everywhere, or did it just run in his veins? Aziraphale was content to fall asleep right here, dreaming of Crowley. 

And he would have, too, if he wasn’t rudely interrupted. 

A sudden flash of purple light filled the shop with the force of lightning. Aziraphale cracked an eye open, not wanting to investigate the light any further. 

“Aziraphale?” a voice boomed through the shop, startling him back into reality. He looked frantically around to see Gabriel standing over him, one eyebrow raised. Even in his human form, the archangel gave off the light and heat of an insufferable summer day, and Aziraphale wished he could draw curtains between the two of them “Are you…  _ sleeping _ now?”

“Oh, me?” Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, wiping the tiredness from his eyes, squinting to see properly. “No no, I’m not one for sleep. Just uh, you know, it’s good to rest after a long and hard day. Er, morning and early afternoon, that is.”

Gabriel nodded, glancing around the shop with a mildly concerned look. “Indeed, yes. I suppose I should give you a commendation for your work. Lord knows how you do it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if the angel suddenly had a grasp on sarcasm and the concept of humor, or if he honestly believed that Aziraphale had been hard at work before he showed up. “Sorry, come again?”

“Well it absolutely reeks of a demon in here,” Gabriel said matter-of-factly, and Aziraphale clenched his teeth to stop himself from saying something he might regret. “But it looks like you’ve triumphed over him, so well done. And, speaking of, this is precisely what I was sent to talk to you about.”

Aziraphale, feeling more and more tense at every word could only manage a stifled “Oh?”

Gabriel pulled a small vial of amber-colored liquid out of his pocket, and held it out to Aziraphale. “Heaven’s latest advancement in technology. We’d like for you to give it a test run.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, taking the vial. It glowed slightly in his hands, and was surprisingly cold to the touch. He held it up to the light to examine it, and asked, “So what exactly do I do with this?”

“If all is correct, it should make you, or any angel, indistinguishable from humans. It should take away any outward characteristics of your angelic nature, while still allowing you miracles and such.” Gabriel looked awfully proud of himself. “And it will keep you hidden from prying occult forces.”

Aziraphale uncorked the vial. “Well, I wouldn’t say Heaven is occult, it’s ethereal.”

Gabriel’s face fell somewhat. “I didn’t mean  _ Heaven _ , Aziraphale.  _ Demons _ wouldn’t be able to sense you.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Oh. That’s interesting.” He swirled the liquid around like a fine wine and tried to smell it, but found that it overwhelmingly smelled of… nothing. Like how a black hole looks like nothing, sucking the light around it into its nothingness. “How do I use it, exactly?”

“Not sure,” Gabriel said with a not-my-problem shrug. “Though I wouldn’t ingest it. Give it a few test runs, and report back with what is most effective in shielding you against demonic attack.” He smoothed down his suit — not that it had undergone any change since appearing in the shop — and nodded to Aziraphale as a goodbye. “We’ll be expecting to hear from you soon.” 

And with that he was gone, and Aziraphale was left with a vague sensation of a sunburn. He shook his head, attempting to clear it, and sat back down in the armchair. 

So, a magic potion that makes demons think you’re human. Not one of Heaven’s best advancements, but Aziraphale had an idea of how he could use it to his advantage, Gabriel and his plans be damned. 

Even if Aziraphale could mask his angelic nature around Crowley, the demon would probably still recognize his corporeal form. He examined his figure in his window reflection, considering what changes he could make to disguise himself. A pair of girls ran past the window, their skirts billowing around their ankles, laughing as they grabbed for each other’s hands. 

Ah yes, maybe Crowley was right about switching up his style to fit the decade. Perhaps Aziraphale could benefit greatly from a little change.

** _This thing called love_ **

** _I just can't handle it_ **

** _This thing called love_ **

** _I must get ‘round to it_ **

** _I ain't ready_ **

** _Crazy little thing called love_ **


	2. it swings, it jives

Crowley arrived at the diner fifteen minutes early, as was his custom; he had invented being fashionably early as a concept. According to his memo to Hell, showing up early is technically a waste of a person’s time (sloth) and an unnecessary display of dominance (pride), but of course it wasn’t really about deadly sins; he had arrived late to one dinner with Aziraphale in ancient Rome, and he swore to himself that he would never hear the angel say “I thought you had forgotten about me” again. 

And besides, sitting at the counter by himself gave him time to think about what he could talk about while they were eating. Or rather, what he couldn’t allow himself to talk about. Since the end of the Second World War, he had noticed certain changes in their interactions that both of them silently agreed to leave unaddressed. Little things that shouldn’t matter; the way they maintained eye contact for just a second longer than necessary now, or how they had dinner together at least three times a week, or the way Crowley sometimes woke to find himself on that old sofa, his head on the angel’s shoulder as he read. Little things that were unspeakable a century before, but that they were now sinking into oh so comfortably. 

If he were human, he could have written off all these as isolated incidents, but he was cursed with the ability to see Aziraphale’s angelic aura. Since the beginning of time, he had radiated a constant golden glow, not much more than that. Whenever he performed a miracle, the light around his hands flared up like a gas stove, engulfed in orange flames for a millisecond. On the rare occasion that he witnessed a blessing or healing, honey-colored light flowed off of him in waves. 

But he had seen the angel glowing all sorts of colors, especially recently. Aziraphale’s aura faded into a peachy pink when he laughed, and flushed even deeper when it was Crowley who laughed at his jokes. He had witnessed the light flicker from a deep blue to forest green to the usual gold to rich saffron when Crowley walked into the bookshop. Once or twice the demon could have sworn he saw a flash of deep magenta when he dared to kick up his feet into the angel’s lap or hold his hand. 

And well, Crowley couldn’t prove that the changing colors had any connection to any specific emotions, sure. But he also couldn’t prove that there  _ wasn’t _ a connection, and the possibility haunted him. Did his memory trick him, or did he remember blue waves of light crashing over Aziraphale at the crucifixion of Christ? or at the burning of the Library of Alexandria? And did he have a equal but opposite outpour of rose-colored light when he ate crêpes in France with Crowley? or when his books were saved from the burning church? 

“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar voice said, breaking Crowley from his thoughts. “Is this seat taken?” 

Crowley looked up to find the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

Every inch of her seemed to whisper  _ soft _ , from her platinum-blonde hair to the folds of her skirt. Even her aura was soft: she gave off a glow like an orange creamsicle in the summer. She was dressed in varying shades of white and baby blue, so elegantly designed it was hard to believe she was real.  _ She looks like if vanilla ice cream was a person _ , Crowley thought in a stupor. 

Suddenly realizing that she was waiting for an answer, he managed, “Uh, ghk, sure uh sit please,” already hating himself for how incapable he seemed of speaking. 

She smiled — and oh, she lit up the room — and sat in the seat next to Crowley. “I don’t know about you,” she said with a voice that could make daisies bloom, “but I’ve been craving a milkshake.”

At the word Crowley snapped back to reality. “Fuck, shit, sorry!” he stammered, shrinking into himself. “Sorry, I’m waiting for a friend, actually. He should be here any second.”

She just smiled at him. “Well there’s another stool next to you,” she said, pointing over Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I kept you company while you wait.”

“Oh,” Crowley replied, glancing to his right. “Yeah, that’s true, I guess.”

“Now what do you recommend?” She was holding a menu, tilting her head as she read all the options. “Chocolate is a classic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I think it is.” Crowley squinted at the clock. 7:02. Aziraphale was hardly ever late, where was he? “I like the black cherry, personally. Or the strawberry. Or anything, really.”

She laughed. “Thank you, that narrows it down.”

_ Demons don’t blush _ , Crowley reminded his body as he felt his face beginning to heat. “Well uh, I guess it depends on the mood you’re in, ya know?”

She set down her menu, letting her hand grace lightly against his and leaving it there. “Then I’ll just get what  _ you’re _ in the mood for, darling.”

Crowley swallowed. Is this what it felt like when demons tempted humans? The woman just wanted a milkshake, why was he suddenly finding it hard to breathe? Was he seriously  _ sweating _ where her hand met his?

“Strawcherry-” he blurted out. “Shit, I mean uh, strawberry. Waiter,” he waved to the boy behind the counter. “Can we get two strawberry milkshakes please?” 

The boy nodded and started to the kitchen, and Crowley turned back to the woman just as she said, “So tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, uh, not much to tell about.” He looked at the clock. 7:04. Did time always move this slowly, or was he just cursed? “Name’s Anthony J. Crowley. I like old cars. I do… business.”

“What kind of business?” Was she fluttering her eyelashes? Maybe it was just bright in here. And hot, suffocating even. 

“Architecture?” He didn’t know where that came from. “You know, like uh…” he waved his hands like he was molding clay. “Buildings and roads and stuff.”

“Fascinating,” she said, and it didn’t sound condescending at all. She seemed almost amused, like she knew some joke that he didn’t and it just kept getting funnier. “Why the sunglasses?”

“My eyes.” Crowley said. 7:05.  _ Come on Aziraphale, where are you? _

“What about your eyes?” she smiled, and her hand was still on his and she was tracing little circles on his knuckles with the tips of her fingers. 

“They’re uh, they’re sensitive. To light.” He turned to fully face her, immediately realizing his was a mistake. 

She pointed one foot and nudged Crowley’s boot. “Well then, maybe we ought to go somewhere dark,” she murmured, and she began to slowly slide her foot up the inside of Crowley’s leg. “If you’re feeling especially sensitive…”

Crowley choked, “Look, the milkshakes!” and tried to turn from her, but he couldn’t bear to break contact, even if it was torturing him. 

Luckily, she still had some self-control, and retracted her legs, crossing them at the knee. She smiled at the waiter as he set a glass down in front of her, and her eyes lit up at the sight. “Oh now this is  _ lovely _ !”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. There was something oddly familiar about the way she sat, gazing at the dessert in almost-awe. The way she closed her eyes when she took the first sip of her drink. The way she tilted her head, as if turning over the flavors in her mouth. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “So what about you?”

She looked at him, still sipping from the straw, eyebrows raised as if to say,  _ Who, me? _ She swallowed and said, “I’m a student at the university.”

He nodded approvingly. “What are you studying?”

She took another long sip from her milkshake. “Books. Literature. Various writings.”

“Checks out. Do you p-” but he was cut off by her hand on his face and  _ yes _ , she  _ was _ as soft as she looked. She was still sipping from her glass as she wiped her thumb over Crowley’s bottom lip, ever so gently. 

She left her hand on his face for just a second longer than was really necessary before slowly bringing her hand to her own face, licking a splotch of cream from the tip of her thumb. Crowley felt all the blood drain out of his face and go… somewhere he didn’t want to think about in public. 

“You had whipped cream there,” she said, as if this was a statement that needed saying. She stood and left some coins on the counter, but just before she could leave, she leaned into Crowley. “And between you and me,” she breathed in his ear, “I think it tastes better that way.”

Crowley could hardly keep himself together anymore. He turned to stare as she left, then stood just as she reached the door. “Wait,” he called, and she paused with her hand on the glass. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it,” she smirked. “I’ll see you around, Anthony J. Crowley.” And she was out of the door and down the street before he could formulate a response. 

Crowley slumped back down in his seat. After a minute he looked at the clock. 7:13. Where the  _ hell _ was Aziraphale? And what would he think of Crowley, seeing him in this sorry state?

As he turned back to rest his arms on the counter, the only thought that crossed his mind was “ _ Oh, fuck _ .”

** _This thing (this thing) called love (called love)_ **

** _It cries (like a baby) in a cradle all night_ **

** _It swings (ooh, ooh), it jives (ooh, ooh)_ **

** _It shakes all over like a jellyfish,_ **

** _I kinda like it_ **

** _Crazy little thing called love_ **


	3. hey hey, set me free

_ Stupid stupid stupid. _

What in the name of Satan himself was that? Crowley felt like a repressed schoolboy with the homecoming queen as a science lab partner. Like Shakespeare tearing up first drafts of his lovesick sonnets. Like Queen Dido, enchanted by a twisted love god to fall for Aeneas. Crowley hadn’t felt this flustered since the day Aziraphale had offered to groom his wings. 

_ Shit. _ Aziraphale.

It was one thing to be suddenly and stupidly mesmerized by some random human. It was another thing to be hopelessly in love with an enemy-turned-clandestine-best-friend-eternal-being. It was something new and terrifying to be both of these things at once.

Crowley had never resented being the only demon on earth until now. If other demons had been stationed around the world since the beginning of time, he could ask them, “Hey, what would  _ you _ do if you met the most beautiful human to walk the planet, but you were already in love with someone else?” Then again, this other demon would probably just say that love was not a Hell-approved emotion and tell him to kill both beings without a second thought. Other demons were like that, from his experience. 

Had Aziraphale ever felt this way? Crowley was fairly sure that the angel had been more than friendly with Oscar Wilde back in the day, and made a few remarks about Alexander the Great that raised a few eyebrows, but as far as he could remember, the angel never went into depth about his relationships with humans. It’s just not something they  _ do _ . Dealing with humans was their job, not their meet-cute.

“So sorry I’m late, dear boy.”

Crowley nearly fell out of his seat in surprise. “Angel!” he yelped, catching himself on the counter. “Didn’t see you there, scared me.”

“Oh, I do apologize. Gabriel paid me a visit after you left and I was sent on a quick mission.”

“Ugh, that guy.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “What did he want?”

“Um…” Aziraphale’s aura glowed in an odd shade of jade green for just a second. “Just blessing some little American musical. Apparently God Herself is rather fond of it. Had to pop across the pond for a minute.”

“From America to an American-themed diner. We’re such global citizens.” Crowley handed him the menu the woman had left behind, quickly miracling her empty glass out of existence. Aziraphale didn’t notice, or at least he didn’t say anything. “What are you feeling? I’d say anything except strawberry is fair game.”

Aziraphale glanced at the half-full glass in front of Crowley. “You don’t like it?”

“Nah it’s not that,” Crowley said, stirring the shake halfheartedly. “I just want to steal some of yours, and it’s not worth it if it’s the same as mine.”

“Well that’s alright then,” Aziraphale smiled, looking at the menu.

After a minute of consideration, Crowley carefully said, “Hey um, can I ask you something?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“No, not anything really  _ wrong _ , per se.” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “Just something that’s on my mind. It’s stupid, really”

He put down the menu and turned to fully face Crowley. “I’m sure it’s not stupid if it’s bothering you so.”

“Ah, alright. Okay, so um, let’s say I had this plant, right?” Crowley started, feeling like a complete idiot.

Aziraphale brightened. “I didn’t know you gardened! Good for you, it’s a very relaxing-”

“Angel,  _ please _ listen.”

“Right,” he collected himself. “Continue.”

“Let’s say I had some potted plant. Basil, I don’t know, and I kept it on my windowsill and made sure it got enough sun and water and everything. Even if the leaves have spots or if bugs get to it, I keep this plant alive. That’s good, right?”

“I suppose so,” he said. “It’s nice to have something besides yourself to take care of.”

“Right, yeah, exactly. But what if-” Crowley wasn’t really sure where he was going with this. “What if there was another, more fragile plant? Like I just met this plant in the street and-”

“I’m sorry,  _ met a plant in the street _ ?”

“Ugh, I don’t know! What if someone gave me a bouquet of flowers and told me to take care of them too? Can I even do that? Have two plants at once? Is that okay?” Crowley was drowning in his own metaphor. “Even if I know the flowers are gonna die before the basil, should I take care of them? Or just throw them away? But the flowers are so pretty-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to pull the demon out of his downward spiral.

“I mean not that the basil  _ isn’t _ pretty, the basil is fantastic for other reasons, but is the life of the flower too fleeting?”

“ _ Crowley _ ,” he tried again.

“But who am I to compare the life of the flowers to the basil, they’re so different and if they ever found out about each other-”

Aziraphale took him by the shoulders, trying to shake him out of his rambling. “ _ Crowley! _ ” The demon’s eyes widened and he snapped his mouth closed. “I have a feeling this isn’t really about plants, but you have completely lost me. I think whatever it is, you’re worrying far too much. Why don’t you just do what you want? You’ve always done that before.”

Crowley sighed, aching to lean his head against Aziraphale’s hand. “I don’t know. I guess you’re right.”

“I usually am,” he said, patting Crowley on the shoulder before folding his hands back in his lap. “Now how about those milkshakes?”

“Oh yeah,” Crowley snorted. “Forgot, that’s the whole reason you came here, huh.” If Crowley’s mood had an effect on the jukebox blaring in the corner of the room, he didn’t notice it.

** _Stupid Cupid you're a real mean guy_ **

** _I'd like to clip your wings so you can't fly_ **

** _I'm in love and it's a crying shame_ **

** _And I know that you're the one to blame_ **

** _Hey hey, set me free_ **

** _Stupid Cupid stop picking on me_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okok, I know "Stupid Cupid" isn't "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" BUT Queen covered it (it's on spotify, it's in a medley with "Jailhouse Rock" and "Be Bop a Lula" and it SLAPS). This is only the beginning of 50's songs (with covers by Queen, obv) sprinkled into this fic ;-)
> 
> oh and if you like mistaken-identity hijinks, you should totally check out the #trueformsau on instagram by the artist @masao.sketch !! this fic is in no way related to it but all of their art is just really cute and funny and it's such a good AU and it partially inspired me to write this fic,, @masao.sketch if you're out there i'm your biggest fan and you're doing amazing


	4. take a backseat, hitch hike

Watching Crowley miserably drink his milkshake, Aziraphale had never been more conflicted in his life. 

Yes, it had been a thrill to disguise himself. He was only test-running this thing for Heaven, not sure if it would even work, but it  _ did _ . He had christened himself with the strange liquid, and once it made contact with his skin, he felt some small part of his divinity switch off like a light. He was still able to perform miracles — good thing too, because he had completely forgotten to change his appearance before touching the holy oil — but he felt considerably more like a  _ human _ .

And Crowley had thought he was human, so he could act like a human, like a character of his own devising. Aziraphale was able to openly flirt with the demon, to tease him and smile at him, with no consequences. 

Except, here was the consequence. Crowley had no idea what was going on. And while that was the initial selling point of the whole ordeal, Aziraphale was now wracked with guilt over keeping a secret from him. It was already difficult enough for them to keep such a distance from each other, for fear of their respective sides. He had thought his disguise would be a way for them to break away from that, to finally have the relationship they wanted, free from the oppressive watch of Heaven and Hell. 

It still could be, if Crowley stopped feeling so damned torn about the whole thing realized the possibilities that waited for them if they worked together. But Aziraphale could never tell him about the disguise, or Gabriel might come after him for exposing Heaven’s plans to the other side. 

All this thinking made Aziraphale’s head spin. The waiter set down a chocolate milkshake in front of him, and he smiled and nodded in thanks. “Well this  _ does _ look delightful,” he said, and Crowley looked up at him. 

“Yeah,” the demon sighed. “Get ready to have your world changed. Or something.”

Aziraphale took a sip and decided that he liked the strawberry better, but he couldn’t say that. “Simply delicious. Would you like some, dear?” He pushed his glass across the distance between them, and Crowley accepted it with a smile. 

He took a scoop off the top, trying to maneuver the too-long spoon. “Food always tastes better when you steal it from someone else.” Aziraphale smiled to himself, recognizing his own sentiment from just minutes ago. He saw the moment Crowley remembered the interaction, hurriedly wiping at his mouth as if to hide any excess whipped cream from the angel, saying, “I mean, you know, theft is good. That. Very demonic of me.”

“Yes, of course, very demonic.” Aziraphale handed Crowley a napkin that he did not need, and heard a muffled sound that could have been a thank you. “You know, Crowley,” he said, attempting to swing the night in his favor. “Basil plants are not  _ that _ high-maintenance.”

Crowley coughed. “‘Scuse me? Oh shit, yeah the plant metaphor. Never mind all that, it was dumb.”

“I don’t think it was. If it’s bothering you it most definitely is not dumb.” Crowley shook his head. “I mean it, listen. If you were to ask me to choose, I’d say to take care of the flowers.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, angel, it’s alright.”

Aziraphale huffed, wanting to shout,  _ ‘I do know what I’m talking about, I’m talking about  _ me,  _ you fool! _ ’ But he couldn’t. So he settled for, “Well if you think practically, the flowers may not live for very long, so you might as well make it worth it. Put them in your nicest vase, give them plenty of sunlight, and when they whither up, your basil plant will still be there.”

Aziraphale finished the milkshake, and Crowley looked at him with something like hope in his eyes. “You don’t think the basil would get jealous of the flowers being the center of attention? He’s a very fussy plant.”

Aziraphale suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Dear, I  _ promise _ . Whoever this ‘plant’ is can step out of center stage for a while.”

“Whatever you say angel,” he smiled. He left enough money on the counter to pay for the both of them, and sliding off the barstool asked, “Lift home?”

“Do you have a seatbelt on that motorbike yet?”

Crowley groaned. “Ugh, no, Aziraphale. That would take away the  _ entire _ coolness factor of the bike.” He started towards the door, then stopped himself to turn back. “Although, maybe I’ll get an extra helmet. Just in case someone else ever wants to take a ride.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley’s back as he turned to leave, and shook his head at the roar of the engine a few moments later. 

Perhaps he could get used to the bike. Not in this form, though. Not when Crowley knew it was him. 

** _There goes my baby_ **

** _She knows how to rock and roll_ **

** _She drives me crazy_ **

** _She gives me hot and cold fever_ **

** _She leaves me in a cool, cool sweat_ **

“It’s not that I’m not still in love with Aziraphale,” Crowley rationalized out loud to himself, zooming through London streets. “But it’s like he said, he’ll still be there when… when I get over… this thing.” After six thousand years, admitting to himself that he was in love with Aziraphale came as easy as breathing. But he refused to use any similar vocabulary when talking about anyone besides his angel. “Whatever this  _ thing _ is, hell if I know. Language is a stupid human thing. Bloody brilliant, inventing language, but stupid too. Not enough words in my opinion.”

Crowley slowed as he turned down his street, worn out from all the minor miracles he had used to avoid hitting pedestrians, parked cars, and the occasional fire hydrant. “And it’s good to switch things up every now and then,” he continued under his breath, cutting the engine. “Gotta keep it fresh, that’s what I say.”

He unbuckled his helmet - ugh, the things he did for his angel, ridiculous unnecessary things like  _ helmets _ \- and shook out his hair before slicking it back with a miracle, just one artful curl out of place. 

He was about to stand and cross to his door when he felt something familiar flicker in the corner of his eye: an aura, as pure and good as a human could get, glowing warmly like a familiar street lamp. He turned just slightly and yes, there she was, a cloud of a human floating down the dark street, her cream-colored skirt billowing around her. 

_ Fuck, shit, she’s coming this way.  _

The thing about the phrase “act natural” is that just by being reminded that normal behavior is expected, you tend to forget what ‘normal’ means. Crowley was no exception to this rule, and promptly arranged his limbs around his bike into the most performative and unnatural pose imaginable. He tried his best to look suave, staring into the street behind him, waiting for her to notice him.

She did, and stopped in front of where his bike was parked, one hand on her hip. “Why, Anthony J. Crowley, is that you? Seems like ages since we’ve seen each other.”

He snapped his head toward her at the first sound of her voice. “Oh hey, didn’t see ya there. Yeah, been a while, what,” he glanced at his wrist, willing a watch to appear there, if only for a moment, “uh, forty-seven minutes?”

She leaned on the handlebars of the motorbike, and logistically it should have toppled over, but Crowley hissed  _ “Don’t you dare” _ to the wheels in his mind. “Oh, so you’re keeping track of my comings and goings? I’m touched.”

Crowley did his best not to blush. “Not counting the minutes or anything,” he ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. “Just a time guy. I notice… the time, at times.”

When she laughed, her smile took up her whole being, and bless it, it didn’t matter to Crowley if she was laughing at him, because to see her eyes disappear into her cheeks like that was worth the world.

“You’re something else, darling,” she said, and Crowley continuously found it more and more difficult to keep down the blush that threatened his cheeks. “Say, there’s a movie I’ve been meaning to see, pick me up at eight tomorrow?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up nearly into his hairline. “Oh, ngk, uh yeah of course, sure. Eight o’clock?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, and with one graceful motion, plucked a flower that Crowley hadn’t noticed from her blouse pocket and held it out for him. “Something to remember me by.”

He blinked, his hand reaching for hers completely of its own volition. When their fingers brushed, he felt something like electricity, something familiar, something safe, something completely new and foreign and terrifying. She smiled at him again, and then turned to keep walking down the street.

It took a moment for Crowley’s brain to catch up with reality. “Wait!” he called after her, starting to see a trend in their interactions. She turned around, a ghost of a smirk on her face, like she knew he would always ask her to turn back to him one last time. “Where should I pick you up?”

“Oh!” It seemed that the thought hadn’t occurred to her. She glanced up and down the street, and pointed at a small cafe down the block. “Just over there.” Crowley turned to look at where she was pointing, and when he turned back to her, she was walking away again, one hand raised as if to say,  _ “That’s all for now!” _

Every step that took her farther away from him diminished the effect of her aura somewhat, like the taillights of the cars that passed by. So different from an angel, whose aura shone like a beacon, a lighthouse guiding wayward ships home. That was the difference between humans and angels: humans  _ wanted _ to fade into the background, and angels couldn’t help but be the spotlight. 

_ Huh _ , Crowley thought, turning the flower around in his hand. It was a white carnation, small and delicate and ordinary. A nice, respectable flower.  _ It’s almost like she knows about that stupid metaphor I told Aziraphale. _

** _I gotta be cool, relax, get hip_ **

** _Get on my tracks_ **

** _Take a back seat, hitch hike_ **

** _And take a long ride on my motorbike_ **

** _Until I'm ready_ **

** _Crazy little thing called love_ **


	5. be-bop-a-lula / alop-bom-bom

The next day, for the first time since Aziraphale owned the shop, the angel wasn’t there when Crowley dropped by for a visit. He miracled the door open, knowing that the locked door was meant to keep out customers, not him. But Aziraphale wasn’t there, there was hardly even the remnant of his aura to reassure Crowley that he had been there recently. 

He slumped down into an armchair. Without his angel, the shop just felt like a stuffy old library, made stuffier and older by the ever-present layer of dust covering the shelves. Crowley was convinced that the dust must be there by some angelic force as an attempt to further drive customers away, there was no way it was natural.

With a disappointed sigh, Crowley curled up into the cushions, figuring he might as well get as comfortable as he could while he waited for Aziraphale to come back. It was a shame he wasn’t here, he was going to suggest they go to the cafe down the road so he could scope the place out before his date that night.  _ Ugh _ , why did thinking of it as a  _ date  _ give him such a gross crawling feeling in his stomach? And why did he like it?

He shook his head to clear it. Nap now, feelings later. He snapped his fingers, miracling a record onto the ancient gramophone in the corner of the shop; he didn’t want Aziraphale to be caught completely off guard with the sight of him in his shop, and he figured some modern music would be an indicator of his presence before the angel saw him. 

Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep to the voice of Gene Vincent, deciding he’d wake up in a few hours if Aziraphale didn’t find him first. 

** _Well be-bop-a-lula, she's my baby_ **

** _Be-bop-a-lula, I don't mean maybe_ **

** _Be-bop-a-lula, she's my baby_ **

** _Be-bop-a-lula, I don't mean maybe_ **

** _Be-bop-a-lula, she's my baby love_ **

** _My baby love, my baby love_ **

Aziraphale returned to his bookshop later that afternoon, almost completely worn out from his day as a human (well, as an angel being  _ perceived _ as a human). He wanted to get used to this form a bit more before his night out with Crowley, and he found it was extremely difficult to avoid frivolous miracles. There was something inherently exhausting about existing as a mortal in a big city, and was looking forward to some rest before he had to go through it all again. 

He froze at the sound of music coming softly through the locked door of the shop, and carefully pushed it open as to not ring the doorbell. When he stepped inside, he immediately recognized Crowley’s scent, and figured that the awfully modern music coming from the gramophone must be his work. He was about to call out to find his friend when he saw him, curled up on his usual armchair, soundly asleep. A soft, fond smile crept over his face, and he wished desperately that he had a camera to capture this tender moment.

It suddenly occurred to him that Crowley could wake up any second, and he hastily shifted his body into the form he was used to seeing. He didn’t feel his divinity come back and tiptoed to his desk, where he kept the vial Gabriel had given him. It hadn’t exactly come with instructions, but he wasn’t keen on asking the archangel to lend him a hand. He snapped, and a thermos of water and a towel appeared in his hands; he tried to clean the stuff off his forehead, but only succeeded in spilling water on the carpet. After a moment’s consideration, a thought came to him, and he quickly glanced back to where Crowley was sleeping to make sure he really was asleep. When he heard a light snore, he nodded to himself and blessed the water in his thermos. He poured the smallest possible amount onto the towel before vanishing the whole thermos with a snap, fearing that Crowley may discover it and demand that he share. He really didn’t want a reprise of their argument in 1862. Using the holy water worked, and he felt himself become fully angel again. It was a strange comfort that made him realize just how uncomfortable human existence was. 

His comfort was short-lived, however, as a familiar flash of light filled the bookstore just a moment later, and Gabriel appeared in front of Aziraphale. The archangel opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it and snapped his head to look at Crowley’s sleeping figure. 

“Is that the  _ demon _ ?” His voice dripped with disgust, and Aziraphale realized why men got into fights at bars so often.

“It is,” Aziraphale whispered back. “But I beg of you, don’t do anything to him. I have this whole situation covered.” 

Gabriel looked at him incredulously, as if to say,  _ You expect me to believe that? _

Aziraphale suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and gestured to the vial sitting on his desk. “It worked. He didn’t realize it was me.”

Gabriel’s face brightened then. “Great! Thanks for that Aziraphale, I really think this could be one of our best weapons yet.”

Crowley shifted in his sleep, and Aziraphale was so distracted that the words almost didn’t register with him. Once he understood, he stuttered, “Excuse- I’m sorry, uh, a weapon? You didn’t say anything about it being a  _ weapon _ .”

“Of course it is,” the archangel said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For the Great War? When the antichrist ends life on earth and Heaven battles Hell and emerges victorious? This could be a vital camouflage tool for future sieges.” He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder, making him flinch. “Just think Aziraphale, because of your work here, we will triumph over thousands of agents of Hell. Why don’t you start with him?” Gabriel nodded his head in Crowley’s direction.

Before Aziraphale could even name the swirl of emotions this instilled in him, Gabriel was gone in another flash of light, and he was left with nothing.

He cast a defeated glance at Crowley. He should have known, he  _ should have known _ that Heaven would have ulterior motives. Of course he and Crowley could never just  _ be _ . Even when they were free of their respective sides and created their own, they couldn’t escape. It just  _ had _ to be difficult for them, by definition of who they were. 

But they could pretend. Tonight, he would be able to pretend. Crowley choked out an obnoxious snore, and the smile returned to Aziraphale’s face. Even if it was just pretend, even if it was just tonight, it was worth it. 

For him. 

** _Awop-bop-a-loo-mop alop-bom-bom_ **

** _I got a girl named Daisy_ **

** _She almost drive me crazy_ **

** _I got a girl named Daisy_ **

** _She almost drive me crazy_ **

** _She knows how to love me_ **

** _Yes, indeed_ **

** _Boy, you don't know what she do to me_ **

** _Tutti frutti, aw rooty_ **

** _Tutti frutti, woo!_ **

** _Tutti frutti, **_aw rooty_**_ **

** _Tutti frutti, **_aw rooty_**_ **

** _Tutti frutti, **_aw rooty_**_ **

** _Awop-bop-a-loo-mop alop-bom-bom_ **


	6. one sunny day

Though he wouldn’t admit it outside of a dreamscape, Crowley did love soft things. When he dreamed, he loved to indulge in a way he wouldn’t let himself in waking. He fantasized about plush pillows, white feathered wings, curls of platinum-blond hair, the sound of a page turning, warm thighs resting on cozy sofas, poodle skirts billowing in the wind, whipped cream on milkshakes and marshmallows in hot cocoa, hesitant fingers brushing hair out of his face, the heat of breath across his cheek, lips on the most delicate skin-

“Crowley, dear, you really ought to wake up.”

His eyes shot open as he jolted upright. “Ack- shit! What time is it?”

“Uh,” Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch, “nearly seven-thirty.”

Crowley nearly fell out of his armchair in his scramble to stand. He only had  _ half an hour _ to get ready? That wasn’t enough time for  _ anything _ . “Fuck, shit, fuck, I’m sorry angel, I’d love to stay and talk but I really gotta go.” 

“Oh, I knew I should've woken you sooner. I was waiting for you to wake up, but I thought it must have been getting awfully late.” Crowley was straightening his jacket as he stumbled to the door of the shop. “I suppose we’ve missed our opportunity to get dinner?”

With one hand on the doorknob, he spun to face Aziraphale. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. See you tomorrow! Or some time, I don’t know!”

And with that, he was out of the door and starting his motorbike. He missed Aziraphale’s almost-devilish smile, as he flipped the sign to  _ closed _ . The smile only brightened when he shifted his form, preparing himself for another night as a mortal, and nodded along to the  _ Greatest Hits of the Modern Day _ record that was - miraculously - still playing from the corner of the room.

** _You passed me by one sunny day_ **

** _Flashed those big brown eyes my way_ **

** _And ooh, I wanted you forever more_ **

** _Now I'm not one that gets around_ **

** _Swear my feet stuck to the ground_ **

** _And 'though I never did meet you before..._ **

Look, Aziraphale was the one that got passive-aggressive notes from head office telling him to limit his use of frivolous miracles; Crowley could use as many as he damn well pleased. Being selfish was a sin, right? Using miracles to get home and speed up the getting-ready-for-a-date process was selfish, right? Because the faster he was ready, the sooner he could indulge in the totally legitimate  _ sin  _ that was courting -  _ ugh, “courting” _ \- a human.

This is what Crowley told himself, anyway, in case Hell chose to listen in.

He made it to the cafe by seven forty-five, already planning on exactly how he was going to suavely lean against the brick of the building. He was debating whether or not smoking looked cool or if it was too much. Lots of cool people smoked, right? 

But she was already sitting in the cafe when he arrived, hands wrapped around a mug of something as warm and sweet as she was.

Crowley shook his head, scolding himself for getting so sappy already. He pushed open the doors of the cafe and slid into the chair next to her. “What happened to  _ pick me up at eight _ , huh?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know when a girl says ‘eight’, she means she’ll be ready by six-thirty, and you ought to be too?”

He scoffed, “Who says I wasn’t? I could have been pacing around the block just waiting for two hours, you don’t know.”

Now she laughed at him. “Oh but I do. You’re sweating like a sinner on Sunday, anyone with eyes can tell you rushed here. What’s the matter, overslept or something?”

Christ, she knew him too well after their collective ten minutes of dialogue. “Okay, see it wasn’t my fault.” Which was true. When Aziraphale had walked into his bookshop, his aura acted as an extra blanket over Crowley, plunging him into a deeper sleep than the casual nap he had intended. It really wasn’t his fault that on a primal level, he was a snake that sought out a warm rock to curl up on, and Aziraphale’s presence felt like a space heater at maximum strength. 

“No matter.” Crowley watched as she maneuvered the last bits of cream and sugar from the bottom of the mug onto her spoon and brought it to her lips. Were the little things humans did always this captivating? Or was he only realizing it now? “I have the perfect movie in mind for us, and it really does start at eight, so why don’t we get on that machine of yours and you give me a ride?”

Crowley choked out a response that (he hoped) sounded like, “Sure, anything you want.” He stood, offering his hand to her, not realizing that she would actually accept it. He really only meant the gesture to mean, “ _ and away we go then _ ”, but much to his delight and horror, she interlocked their fingers and began to lead him out of the cafe. All he could do was stumble, stupidly (as per usual these days), and follow after her. 

Once they were outside, she let go of his hand (good thing too, because Crowley was finding it increasingly difficult to keep from sweating all over her), and gestured to his bike. “After you, dear. I brought my own helmet just for the occasion.” 

Crowley could have sworn she hadn’t been holding a sky-blue helmet just moments before, but figured it was better not to question anything she did. He nodded and stepped onto the bike, kicking it into life. He offered his hand to her again, like an idiot, but she ignored it this time, choosing rather to use his shoulder as leverage when climbing onto the seat behind him. 

It was truly embarrassing how easily she could get a rise out of him, seemingly not even knowing what she was doing. Crowley felt physically pained when he imagined trying to explain what was happening here to the Lords of Hell. Not that they would ever ask, because he was sure they couldn’t possibly care less about what he did with humans.

They didn’t care about how fast his useless heart was beating as her hand pressed on his shoulder. They didn’t care about how tight his pants felt when her soft thighs were pressed up against his, her stomach against his back, her breath hot on his neck. They didn’t care about the tiny squeak that escaped his lips as she dragged her hand from his shoulder down his chest, snaking to wrap around his middle with a grip of iron. And they certainly didn’t care about the thousand sudden thoughts that crossed his mind when she whispered in his ear, “I’m ready when you are, darling.”

He had to remind himself that Hell didn’t care, as he tore down the street. They don’t care about humans. Angels, sure, but humans, never. And this was a human. This was okay.  _ More _ than okay. This was fantastic. 

And if Hell didn’t care, then by  _ God _ , he wouldn’t either.

** _I said hello Mary Lou, goodbye heart_ **

** _Sweet Mary Lou, I'm so in love with you_ **

** _I knew Mary Lou, we'd never part_ **

** _So hello Mary Lou, goodbye heart_ **


	7. i wonder why i love you, baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is: 2,979 words worth of fluff. this is my magnum opus.
> 
> oh and we are OUT here using she/her pronouns for aziraphale in this chapter, what even is a gender anyway

If you had told Crowley a week ago that soon he’d be on a date in a movie theater, nervously wondering if it was okay to hold hands during the scary parts of _ Sleeping Beauty _ with some random human woman he had met less than twenty-four hours before, he’d probably call Aziraphale to ask for some holy water to splash on you. Not that any other demon had the imagination to come up with a situation like this, but anyone who knew Crowley had feelings was too dangerous to keep alive. 

A date at a movie theater was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he wasn’t allowed to talk, so he had much less of a chance to make a complete fool of himself. And he had bought the stupidly expensive popcorn they could share, which was just intimate enough to be _ considered _ intimate. On the other hand, Crowley was absolutely petrified and had no idea what to do. He had forgotten to stop himself from sweating and now he was self conscious about it. Surely nobody wanted to hold hands with someone who was just going to sweat all over them, right? Should he put his arm around her? They were watching an animated Disney movie for somebody’s sake, was now the time to try to pull out the smooth moves? 

This was not his scene at all. Crowded bars with bad alcohol and loud music? He was there. The chaos of drag races in the streets? Hell yeah, get him into a car. Long nights at spinning carnivals by the beach? Sign him up. But the quiet of a movie theater, where every twitch of your hand feels amplified and every noise you make turns angry heads in your direction? It was a special kind of torture. 

But when he felt a head lean onto his shoulder and a hand stroking down his arm, an overwhelming feeling of peace washed over him. He could feel the soft orange glow of her aura calm his nerves, settling over him like a blanket. It was remarkable, really, that a human had such a powerful aura. 

“You okay?” he heard from his shoulder, and felt her curls tickle his neck. 

He nudged her head slightly with his. “I think I am now.”

If it was possible to hear a smile, Crowley did then. 

The movie only lasted for about twenty more minutes after that, but Crowley basked in every moment, trying to breathe it all in like sweet smoke. There was something strangely familiar about this human, but Crowley just couldn’t place it. It was like waking up from a century of sleeping, but the harder you think about what you dreamed about, the less you remember. 

Crowley was so lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the credits had ended, the lights in the theater had come up, and he was being asked, “Ready to go, darling?” 

He snapped himself back into reality in time to see his date offering him a hand. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He scrambled to his feet, reaching for her hand and smiling at the warmth of it. 

“I personally think the movie is far superior to the original fairytale, and I’m not one to say that very often,” she said, leading him down the aisle to the exit. “I almost always prefer books to movies, but there’s something magical about animation, don’t you agree?”

If he was being honest, Crowley had spent the majority of the movie trying to remember what his date’s name was—had she ever _ told _ him her name?—and had only ever focused on the screen for a minute at a time. “Uh, yeah. Totally agree. Crazy what they get up to in Hollywood.”

As they got to the door, Crowley made a move to open it, but she got there first, holding it open and smiling, “After you, dear.”

He nodded. “Thank you, uh- hey, you never actually told me your name, did you? I really apologize if you did and I just forgot, like an idiot, but I just can’t remember.”

She laughed and closed the door behind them, crossing to Crowley’s motorbike. “A girl has to have some secrets, right? Can’t go giving it all away on the first date, now can I?”

Crowley gulped, trying not to think about the implications of _ giving it all away on the first date _ and what else she could possibly have meant. “Yeah, makes sense.” She was already sitting on the back of the bike, helmet on and hands in her lap, by the time he got to her. “So where are we off to?”

“I’ll give you directions,” she said, patting the spot on the seat in front of her. “You just make sure not to drive too fast, and I’ll point out the way.”

He took the keys out of his jacket pocket with a flourish and swung himself onto the seat. When he felt her body pressed up against his, he couldn’t help but smile. “I promise I won’t go too fast for you. Just hold on tight.”

He kicked the bike into life, and they were off. 

** _You don't like crazy music_ **

** _You don't like rockin' bands_ **

** _You just wanna go to a movie show_ **

** _And sit there holding hands_ **

** _You're so square_ **

** _Baby I don't care_ **

Crowley cut the engine and turned to face Aziraphale. “You’re not tired of diner food? Weren’t we here yesterday?” 

“Precisely!” Aziraphale said. She took off her helmet and shook out her curls, not missing the way Crowley’s gaze lingered on her as she did. “I think it would be fun to have another milkshake. And other food, I suppose. The focus is on the milkshake.”

“As you wish,” he said, and swung off the bike. He offered his hand to help her down, and Aziraphale accepted, interlacing their fingers delicately before bringing his arm close to her chest and holding it possessively with both hands. It made her heart race to be so bold, and she was only encouraged by the shocked delight on Crowley’s face. She saw him swallow thickly before saying, “Yup, okay let’s go.”

Aziraphale worried that she was getting too used to the devilish smirk that often came across her face lately. She supposed it was Crowley’s job to be the devilish one out of the pair, but she was having such _ fun _ with it. 

Crowley found them a booth this time, so they could sit facing each other. He picked up the menu and coughed, not making eye contact, “I gotta tell you, the food here is kind of shit, but that’s what makes it good, you know? Unless you don’t think it’s good. I don’t know what kind of food you like, but almost everything here is deep-fried or just greasy, so if you’d rather eat somewhere else we could still go.”

“My darling,” Aziraphale said, and he looked up to meet her steady gaze. “I wanted to come here to eat the food, no matter how greasy it is.”

“But, like,” Crowley hunched his shoulders and looked away again, and oh no, Aziraphale knew this look. This was insecurity incarnate. “Would you really be happy with greasy food? Or are you just settling for it because it’s here? You know there’s lots of better food, right? Like, there’s the Ritz.”

Aziraphale sighed. He was spiralling again. “Dear, please-”

“Not that we should go to the Ritz, we _ definitely _ shouldn’t, but it exists, you know?” Crowley was talking at a hundred miles an hour. “But you’re _ here _ with _ me _ when maybe you deserve the Ritz, and do you really think that’s fair? You can’t buy champagne _ here _, just milkshakes and-”

“I did say I _ wanted _ a milkshake-”

“But is that what you really want, or are you settling for me? I know I’ll never be good enough for-”

“Anthony J. Crowley, that is quite enough!” His mouth snapped shut. She hadn’t exactly raised her voice at him, but there was a certain level of assertion that hadn’t been there before. She took the menu from where he was nervously curling it in his hand, and set it flat on the table. “How about you order some onion rings and calm down?”

He nodded quickly. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Aziraphale rested her hand on his. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m here with you because I want to be, alright? I’m here for you. For _ us _.” 

He smiled, though still a bit nervous. “And for the milkshakes.” 

She laughed. “Of course, yes. And for the milkshakes.”

It was odd, Aziraphale thought, Crowley looking at this person in front of him and not seeing an angel. It was strange how Crowley could have dinner with some random human woman, someone who had no reason to have an opinion on him, and still worry about whether or not he deserved to be there.

As Crowley ordered their meals, apologizing for inconveniencing the waiter, Aziraphale realized the problem. Crowley had to walk the fine line between being _ good _ and being _ good enough _ . He could never be outright _ good _, or all the forces of Hell might descend upon him; and perhaps good deeds reminded him of his own time as an angel (that is, if he could remember such a time, they never really talked about it). But Crowley desperately needed to be good enough. For Aziraphale in angel form, for Aziraphale in this human form, for the random humans he encountered every day. He needed, so badly, for everyone to know that he was doing his best (or his worst, if he was really committing to a temptation that day).

And Aziraphale didn’t know how to tell him he was good enough. He should just _ know _it, without feeling like he had to ask for confirmation. 

The waiter delivered their food—onion rings, chicken tenders, and cheesey french fries—and Crowley was right; it was kind of shit, but that was what made it good. Aziraphale got the black cherry milkshake this time, and told Crowley that he thought it was the best she had tasted so far. 

Crowley smiled. “Well it can’t be your favorite, that’s my favorite!”

“Well,” Aziraphale shrugged, “I guess that means we’ll just have to come back here so I can try them all. They have far too many flavors to try in one go.”

They finished the food within a few minutes, and Crowley insisted on paying the check (which was a good thing, since Aziraphale had forgotten to carry any money, and couldn’t exactly miracle any up without raising suspicion. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” she suggested after Crowley had paid. “I mean, the city really comes alive at night, you know?”

Crowley stood. “I think I’d like that. Let’s go.” When Aziraphale stood, she linked their arms together with a soft smile. 

** _I don't know why my heart flips_ **

** _I only know it does_ **

** _I wonder why I love you baby_ **

** _I guess it's just because_ **

** _You're so square_ **

** _Baby I don't care_ **

They had only been walking for a few minutes when Crowley heard music. He was a big fan of modern music, but more than that, he loved what music did to people. Rock ‘n’ roll gave teenagers the right to lose their minds for three whole minutes, for no reason other than they _ could _.

Dancing had been one of Crowley’s hobbies for centuries, even if he wasn’t very good at it. He even had a hand at inventing some of the more popular dances; there was nothing inherently demonic about the moves he came up with, but people always had weird outlooks on what was socially acceptable. Humans faced no moral consequence for moving their hips a certain way, but it sure pissed off annoying old people. Any disturbance of the peace he could create was a win in his book. 

“Hey, now here’s an idea,” Crowley said, gesturing to a large building just down the street. Though they were a considerable distance away, they could hear music pouring out of the open doors. “One of those hip new sock-hops!”

She abruptly stopped in her tracks, and Crowley tripped a bit in surprise.

“What’s up? Don’t you wanna boogie?” Crowley tapped his foot to the beat, loosening up his shoulders.

She scoffed. “I’m not much of a dancer, no. I prefer dances that have a very clear set of steps. None of this,” she waved her hand at Crowley’s shimmying for emphasis, then gestured to the dance hall, “new-fangled stuff.”

He smiled, looking back at the building, and tuned in enough to hear that they were nearing the end of “Jailhouse Rock”. “I mean, I understand not liking Elvis. Kid uses his ‘magic pelvis’ on television one time and he’s suddenly a sensation? I mean come on, anyone can do that. I taught that kid everything he knows, from the hip slide to the rubber legs.”

“Oh really, _ you _ came up with those ridiculous moves?” She sounded incredulous, but there was a part of her voice that sounded genuinely curious. 

“Damn right, I’m a dance master. The jitterbug? The hand jive? The, uh, Charleston? Those were all me.”

She shook her head at him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Well, if I do recall correctly, they first started doing the Charleston early twenties, so you’re either a liar, or much older than you look.”

Crowley snorted, still vaguely bopping along to the music. “Fine, you got me. I don’t even know how to Charleston, but the other two were definitely mine. I swear I was doing all that before it got popular, I guess I’m a trendsetter.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.” She was standing still, arms crossed, though Crowley could tell she was enjoying the music more than she would admit. 

Elvis faded out and was replaced with a more acoustic sound that Crowley instantly recognized. “Aw, it’s a Buddy Holly song! Now _ that’s _ a talented kid. Died way too soon. It’s an insult to his memory not to dance to his music.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dear, you can’t say things like that to get me to dance! Leave Mr. Holly out of it.”

“Come on, this is a new dance I’m working on. Here, you go like this,” Crowley leaned back on his right leg and stuck his left in front. “And you just kinda do this.” He jerked his left leg from side to side, almost following the rhythm of the song, rocking his body and letting his shoulders shimmy with the force of it.

He looked at his dance partner, whose face was stuck in a permanent smile. “That’s utterly ridiculous, and I’m rather fond of it.” 

“Come on, you should try it! I think I’m gonna call it _ The Twist _. It’s gonna be a big hit, so we ought to master it now.” He took her hands in his, letting his body move with the music, pulling her along with him. She caught on quicker than he thought she would, and soon they were moving in unison. He tried to catch her eye, and saw that she was focused on trying to synchronize their feet, biting her lip in concentration, trying as hard as she could to get it right.

And Crowley felt something in his heart that he had only ever felt when looking at Aziraphale. It was an indescribable realization of, _ “Oh shit, you really care. You see that I take joy in this stupid, human thing, and you want to share that joy with me, even if you have to work for it. You want me to be happy.” _

He felt it when Aziraphale invited him over for drinks, saying that he had a bottle of the most obscure brand that Crowley had offhandedly mentioned two centuries earlier. He had felt it when, in snake form, he noticed a few extra children running around Noah’s ark. He felt it when he drunkenly raved about Sappho, Leonardo da Vinci, Frida Kahlo, and any other artist who caught his fancy, and a day later he would catch Aziraphale in his shop, editing their biographies to include Crowley’s name. 

And he tried again and again to make sure Aziraphale felt it too, when he miracled _Hamlet_ into a success, when he saved his prophecy books from a burning church, when he showed up to free him from the guillotine and took him out for crêpes. He needed Aziraphale to understand that every _ “Don’t worry about it” _ meant _ “You’ll always have me.” _ Every _ “It’s no problem” _ meant _ “Please let me show you how much I care.” _ Every _ “I can do it for you” _ meant _ “I love you.” _

“I did it!” she shouted, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at Crowley. She was twisting exactly to the beat of the song, even as Crowley’s legs felt weak and fell out of time. “Did you see? I think I got it right! See, you only have to teach me the steps and I can do it. I may not be a natural improviser like you, but here I am doing your _ Twist _!”

He smiled. “I love you.”

They both froze for just a second before he added, “Your moves! I love your moves. Love that you did that, that dance with me.”

But she hadn’t missed what he said the first time, and for the first time since they’d met, her cheeks turned red as she laughed, “I love you too. And your moves.”

** _You don't know any dance steps that I do_ **

** _I only know I love you like I do, I do, I do_ **

** _I don't know why my heart flips_ **

** _I only know it does_ **

** _I wonder why I love you baby_ **

** _I guess it's just because_ **

** _You're so square_ **

** _Baby I don't care_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh listen..... i love them so much.
> 
> this chapter took 5 years for me to be happy with the end product but GOD am i happy with it (and i hope you are too!). thank you for coming with me on this journey, only a couple more chapters left in this fic!! aah!!! (oh and i’m so excited for the next fic i’m gonna write, i’m planning on it being very Different from my usual content but no spoilers :^))
> 
> come yell at me on my brand new good omens /queen tumblr sideblog @leftinthebentley! and kudos/comments are always very very much appreciated (oh and y’all who comment consistently? you are my #1 supply of serotonin and you’re keeping this fic alive, thank you so so much)
> 
> OH ALSO go listen to "You're So Square (Baby, I Don't Care)", both the original and the Queen cover! this song was a huge inspiration behind this fic and deserves all the love in the world


	8. until i'm ready

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?” Crowley asked, helping his date off the bike. She had requested that he drop her off back at the cafe where they had met earlier. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Oh no dear, this is fine. I’m, uh, meeting some friends here later tonight. But thank you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and glanced at the cafe’s front window to see that it was closing in fifteen minutes. Shrugging, he figured it was better not to ask any questions; she had said earlier that_ a girl had to have some secrets, _ and he guessed this was one of them. He turned his gaze back to find her struggling to undo the strap of her helmet.

“Here, let me help you with that.” He reached to undo the clasp, his fingers brushing against her soft cheek as she smiled up at him. “There we go,” he said, removing the helmet and handing it to her, as carefully as if it were made of glass. 

“Thanks, darling." She ran a hand through her hair, almost self-consciously, and they both laughed as her curls flopped right back into her face.

“I got it, here,” he said, and made to brush her hair out of her eyes. 

And then, several things happened in the span of half a second.

The moment his fingertips made contact with her forehead, he let out a stifled cry of pain and jerked his hand back. She gasped and stepped back in surprise at the sudden noise. Their eyes met, full of fear and confusion.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m-”

“Crowley, are you alright?”

Crowley shook his head, clutching the hand that had touched her. “I have to- dammit, _ fuck.” _

“What’s wrong? How can I-”

But Crowley was already climbing back onto his bike and starting the engine, saying, “I’m so sorry, I gotta go.” 

And without looking back to see the heartbreak on her face, Crowley was gone.

** _I gotta be cool, relax, get hip_ **

** _And get on my tracks_ **

** _Take a back seat, hitch-hike_ **

** _And take a long ride on my motorbike_ **

_ “Shit shit shit shit shit shit SHIT.” _

Crowley sped back to his apartment as fast as he possibly could, breaking every traffic law without even trying, too distracted by the pain in his hand to think about anything else.

There was only one explanation: holy water. Not enough to do any actual damage to him or his form, but enough to burn like he had closed his fingertips inside a hot oven. There was fucking _holy water_ on her forehead and he had _ touched it_ like an idiot. How had he not felt it when he had held her hand? Surely she would have needed to have it on her fingers as well, right?

_ “Stupid stupid stupid STUPID.” _

The wheels skidded to a halt in front of his apartment. Of course the moment he becomes interested in someone other than an actual, literal angel, it’s some human who might be just as dangerous to him. What was she even doing with holy water? Was she the type to go to church on a Friday night before a date?

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so fucking depressing. Even if she was interested in him, they were driven apart by some stupid cosmic plan. He was just some stupid piece of demon trash that could never be good enough. Not for Heaven, not for Aziraphale, not for her.

_ “Dammit dammit dammit DAMMIT.” _

He threw his keys onto his coffee table and slumped into bed. It was over. There was officially no way they could work this out. He would never see her again, he didn’t deserve to. What would he even say to her? “Oh sorry, I ran away because, as an agent of Hell, it physically pained me to come into contact with holy water, which is apparently something that seems to be important to you. So I sincerely apologize, but this will never work. Better luck next time.”

Ugh. He shook his head. That’s it. Time to do what he did best: sleep his problems away and hope they were gone when he woke up.

** _Until I'm ready (Ready Freddie!)_ **

** _Crazy little thing called love_ **


	9. wearing my heart like a crown / crazy little thing called love

It had been two weeks since Aziraphale had seen Crowley. 

When the demon had touched his forehead and run away from him, the angel promptly turned on his heel and ran to his own home. He was no fool, he knew that Crowley must have gotten burned when his fingers made contact with the holy oil. The knowledge that he had caused Crowley pain—real, _ physical _ pain—haunted him as he made his way through the dark London streets. There was nothing Aziraphale could do to help Crowley now, except to make sure he could never hurt the demon again. 

So when he got back to the bookshop, he did something he had never done before.

Aziraphale slammed the door of his shop and conjured up his holy water and towel to wash the damned stuff off his face. He found the vial sitting on his desk, looked up past the ceiling, and shouted, “Gabriel! I need to speak with you!”

To his surprise, a flash of purple light filled the bookstore as soon as the words left his mouth. Gabriel appeared, hands folded and eyebrow raised.

“Aziraphale? What seems to be the problem?”

Aziraphale pressed the vial into Gabriel’s hand. “I don’t want this anymore.”

Gabriel looked down, confused. “Does it not work? Our last meeting confirmed that-”

“Yes, I know what happened during our last meeting. I was _ there _ .” Aziraphale had never snapped at his superiors, but he’d had a very long day and he was tired of putting up with it. “I’m telling you that I do _ not want _ this anymore. I don’t want to test run your secret weapons, I don’t want to fight against demons in the Great War, I don’t want any part of any of your plans anymore!”

Gabriel slipped the vial into his pocket and crossed his arms, speaking the way a disappointed father would to a child throwing a tantrum at the supermarket. “Now Aziraphale, that’s absolutely ludicrous. It’s a shame this didn’t work out for you, but you can’t go against the Great Plan. It’s the _ Great Plan _ for Heaven’s sake!”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I am well aware. And I want no part in it.”

The room grew suddenly much darker, as if Gabriel had sucked all the energy and life out of the world to put it into his voice. He said each word very deliberately, like a final warning. “You don’t have a _ choice _.”

But Aziraphale stood with even more power. He felt a part of his true form showing, light radiating from him as his wings unfurled and towered over Gabriel. He took one careful step towards him before saying, “I _ do _ have a choice, Gabriel. And I am _ choosing _ to go against your orders, even if they come from the Almighty Herself. If She has a problem, She can take it up with me personally. Until then, I am making the choice to ask you to leave my shop and _ never _ bother me with your plans again.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes and huffed. “If that’s what you have to say, fine. But don’t come crawling to me when the Almighty casts you out.”

“Oh believe me, I won’t.”

And with that, Gabriel disappeared in another flash of light. 

That was two weeks ago, and Aziraphale had not heard from him (or from anyone upstairs) since. He also had not heard from Crowley. Not a visit, not a phone call, not a letter, nothing.

And once again, Aziraphale decided he’d had enough.

He had never been to Crowley’s flat before, but he decided that locating the address and walking there would only be more time wasted. So with a snap of his fingers, he found himself standing next to Crowley.

Well, _ he _was standing. Crowley was curled up in a ball on his ridiculously large bed, buried in blankets and breathing steadily. There was a record playing some sorrowful doo-wop on the nightstand; he guessed Crowley must have fallen asleep listening to it, willing the record to play indefinitely. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and said, “Crowley, dear, you really must wake up.” When he didn’t stir, Aziraphale shook his shoulder slightly. “Crowley, come on now. You can’t listen to sad music and sleep forever.”

** _Yes, I'm the great pretender_ **

** _Just laughin' and gay like a clown_ **

** _I seem to be what I'm not, you see_ **

** _I'm wearing my heart like a crown_ **

** _Pretending that you're still around_ **

It was nice to sleep, but it was even nicer to dream. To dream of sky-blue motorbike helmets and curls of platinum-blonde hair, of blushing and a shy meeting of eyes, of forehead kisses that didn’t go so horribly wrong. To dream of bookshops and couches, of faces red from alcohol or embarrassment or laughter or a mix of the three, of two sitting in an armchair meant for one, of jackets falling to the floor and hands reaching up to hold soft faces… 

It was nice to sleep, but it was not as nice to wake up. Especially to the sound of, “Crowley, so help me _ somebody, _ I will break this record in half over your head.”

Crowley rolled over with a grunt. “Ah come on, that’s the Platters, show some respect.” He snapped his stiff fingers, and the record stopped playing. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up against the headboard. “What’s up, angel? How did you even get in here?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms. “That’s hardly important. What is important is that I haven’t seen you in two weeks and we have much to discuss, so wake up.”

“Alright, alright, I’m awake,” Crowley said, raising his arms in surrender and swinging his legs off of the bed. “Do you want some tea or anything?”

Aziraphale seemed to calm a bit at the question. “That would be nice, actually.” He followed Crowley into the kitchen, taking in the interior design of the flat for the first time. “Quite an interesting place you have here. Very… metallic.”

“Yeah, what can I say, I’m a trendsetter.” He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. “I think minimalism is really gonna take off in the next ten years or so. We’ll see.”

Aziraphale leaned against the counter and looked at Crowley, a strange expression on his face. “Do you do that a lot?”

Crowley took two mugs from his cupboard and set them down. “Do what a lot?”

“You know,” Aziraphale waved vaguely with his hand, “set trends. Do things first so they’ll become popular.”

Crowley shrugged as he found teabags for the mugs. “I guess. It’s fun to guess where humanity will take itself next, you know? But it’s more fun to give them stuff to take with them. Like interior design, yeah, but other things are cooler, like poetry styles, or slang terms, or-”

“Or dances.” Aziraphale finished, looking at Crowley intensely.

He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. “Yeah,” he said suspiciously, “or dances. Those are the most fun, ‘cause they don’t really have rules.” The kettle started to whistle, and he quickly turned off the stove and began to pour. “How’d you guess about the dances? Did you catch me trying out a couple moves in the shop mirror one day?”

Aziraphale took the mug he was offered with a smile. Crowley noticed that he hesitated a moment before saying, “You taught me.”

The demon barked out a laugh. “Oh, I taught _ you? _ To _ dance? _ Unlikely. Must have been piss drunk that night ‘cause I can’t remember a thing.” 

“No, um, see that’s really what I came to talk to you about.” He took a long sip of his tea and set his mug down. “You taught me how to do the Twist.”

A memory of a deserted street flashed in Crowley’s mind; he remembered soft hands in his, sweet music playing from a distant dance hall, two bodies moving in time with each other, a laugh, the sweep of blonde hair over a smiling face, and the sting of holy water. 

Crowley shook his head to clear it. “Nah, that can’t be right. Must’ve been something else. I’ve only shown the Twist to one person and-”

“And it was _ me, _ Crowley.” His hands found Crowley’s and held them tightly. “Don’t you see? That wasn’t just some random girl, dear, it was me all along.”

He took a step back. “You’re crazy, you don’t know what you’re talking about, _ I _ don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you stop running away from this? I’m trying to tell you something!”

“What, that you somehow hid your identity from me and tricked me into falling in love with you?”

Crowley clapped a hand over his mouth when he said it, but it was too late, the words had fallen out already. 

_ Shit shit shit, I’ve ruined everything, fuck fuck fuck, goddammit- _

But Aziraphale was smiling. “I mean, you’re not wrong, per se.” Crowley knew that if he opened his mouth again, he would not make any kind of intelligent sound, so he let Aziraphale continue.

And he told him everything. From the first visit from Gabriel, to the diner dates, to his last encounter with the archangel. 

“So you see, it’s all alright!” Aziraphale finished. “I’ve decided to stop blindly obeying Heaven and its stupid rules, not that I’ve really been following them very well since I stepped foot on earth.”

Crowley let out a low whistle. “Damn, angel. You really are crazy.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I refuse to be a part of their game any more. Especially when they want me to fight against you. I simply won’t allow it. And anyway,” he said, taking a step towards Crowley, “you were saying something a minute ago about getting tricked into falling in love with me?”

In all the dreams Crowley had had about this moment, none of them went like this. He never pictured himself professing his love in his kitchen, having just learned that Aziraphale was prepared to fight against Heaven to stay at his side. 

But somehow, this was perfect.

“I think I am,” he said. “In love with you, I mean. I think I have been since the beginning. And I think you’re a right bastard for making me fall in love with you _ twice _ in two different forms. How is that fair?”

Aziraphale smiled up at him, and yes, this was the angel he knew and loved. “Well, I’m sure you can think of a way to get even, you’re very creative.”

His hair was a mess, Crowley wondered if he knew. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to the angel’s hair to brush it from his face, smiling at the memory of a sidewalk bathed in streetlamp light. 

He leaned in to kiss Aziraphale’s forehead—and this time without the fear of holy water. Aziraphale seemed to have predicted his move, and caught Crowley’s lips in his own. 

As he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, he realized that the tea was getting cold. It’d be positively icy by the time they finished whatever it was they had just started doing.

Well, that was okay. After this, they could go out for milkshakes. 

** _This thing called love_ **

** _I just can't handle it_ **

** _This thing called love_ **

** _I must get round to it_ **

** _I ain't ready_ **

** _Crazy little thing called love_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for coming with me on this journey, oh my goodness! finally getting around to writing this has been a dream come true, and all the feedback from you guys has helped me make it a reality. I'm sad to see it end, but glad to start the next project (and WHEW am i excited)! 
> 
> [come bother me on tumblr!](leftinthebentley.tumblr.com) i would love nothing more than to yell about this show with y’all 
> 
> much much love. thank you for reading! <3


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